The Handover - ReHanded
by HodorSavedMyCattle
Summary: Love thrones? Love hands? Love whimsical banter and compulsive swearing, mixed with an innocuous and yet undeniably atrocious plot? Well have we got the story for you! The creators of 'The Handover' present, the inevitable pile of shite that we call the sequel.
1. Chapter 1 - IT BEGINS ANEW

THE HANDOVER

PART 2

RE-HANDED

HEY, GUESS WHAT DICKHEADS

THIS SHIT HAS RETURNED ANEW, WITH AN ABUNDANCE OF IDIOCY AND EXCESSIVE SHIT

OKAY, SO FOR YOU GUYS WHO DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED IN THE FIRST INSTALLATION OF THE HANDOVER, THEN YOU CLEARLY ARE NOT 'IN THE KNOW', WHICH IS A SHAME, CONSIDERING THAT THIS MAY WELL BE THE MOST IMPORTANT PIECE OF LITERATURE EVER WRITTEN

SO I'D RECOMMEND THAT YOU GO CHECK THAT SHIT OUT

WHAT'S THAT? YOU CAN'T BE ASSED? WELL, OKAY THEN. FAIR ENOUGH. I'D BE THE SAME IF I WAS IN YOUR POSITION.

SO HERE'S A QUICK PLOT SYNOPSIS:

SHIT WENT DOWN IN WESTEROS, JAIME'S HAND WAS STOLEN, THE RAGTAG TEAM OF TYRION, BRONN, POD AND OBERYN WENT TO GO FIND IT, UNORTHODOX SHIT HAPPENED, FOUND HAND AT MUNICH BEER FESTIVAL FOR SOME REASON, AND ALL IN TIME FOR SEASON 4 EPISODE 3

YES, THIS SHIT IS CLEARLY CANON, WHAT DO YOU EVEN WANT FROM US?

BUT NOW, THE WHOLE PLAYING FIELD HAS CHANGED SINCE WE LAST SAW OUR LOVEABLE CREW

FOR EXAMPLE, OBERYN HAS BEEN AFFLICTED WITH A SLIGHT CASE OF FRAGILE HEAD SYNDROME, AND THUS IS OUT OF COMMISSION FOR THE TIME BEING

BRONN TOTES GOT MARRIED TO A NONDESCRIPT LASS

POD IS GOING AROUND WITH SOME BLONDE LASS

AND TYRION PARTOOK IN THE MUCH-LOVED PAST TIME OF MURDERING HIS LOVED ONES AND ALSO HIS SASSY DAD, AND THEN SAT IN A BOX AND GREW A BEARD AND COMPLAINED A BIT AND ALSO VARYS WAS THERE BUT THAT'S NOT RELEVANT TO THIS SHIT

ALSO, LITTLEFINGER IS IMPORTANT, AND HE'S OFF GETTING SOME O' THAT SWEET UNDERAGE PUSSAAAY

AND THERE'S ALSO A DUDE CALLED BARON SPOOKUS, BUT THE LESS SAID ABOUT HIM, THE BETTER

WE'D LIKE TO DEDICATE THIS CHAPTER TO ALL THE FANS OF THE FIRST INSTALLATION OF THE HANDOVER, FOR MAKING US DO MORE OF THIS SHIT

AIGHT, LET'S CRACK ON

Chapter 1: The Smelly Face House

It was a sunny morning in… somewhere in Westeros, assumedly. Everyone's favourite sellsword Bronn (known as Bronn Quixote to his friends, although he didn't know why) was jiving along the beach, throwing rocks into a large body of water (because he hated water), whilst some boring wench talked about some unimportant stuff. No doubt Bronn was totally ignoring her, as his hatred of water was a much more pressing issue. His eyes were caught by a sexy beast in hot red leather practising his squats across the water from him. No doubt his wife noticed to, on account of her asking him who the stylish hunk of a man was.

With his usual eloquence, Bronn said, 'It's Jaime fookin' Lannister.' And then he gallivanted over to him.

After Jaime said some boring shit and Bronn sent his lass away to go do something or other, Bronn and Jaime started hittin' the shit. Jaime had a plan! And you may be thinking, 'But writer of this magnificent and totally canon tale! We know all this! They're gonna go off to Dorne and rescue Marcella or some boring shit like that!' WRONG. There's a reason that this story is called 'The HANDover', not 'The BLANDover'! (Wordplay!) This is what really went down:

'Hey dude,' started Jaime, wiggling his eyebrows. 'I heard that you're pretty satisfactory at acquiring hands, on account of you getting my hand a year ago'. He gestured towards his giant-ass golden hand. 'You may not know this, but we executed Grand Maister Pycelle to use his room for my extensive collection of hands. It's pretty swaggin'. But my collection is not yet complete. There exists a curio, an artefact, a vestige of a time gone past. It is the Hand of the Handless Harmonica Player!' Bronn gasped.

'The legends say that it is five foot tall, encrusted with all manners of precious stones, and holds a gold-plated harmonica on each finger,' continued Jaime. 'This is where you come in. I will pay you a ridiculous sum of money to form together your old crew and get me this hand.'

'Well how tha fook d'ya expect me to do that?' asked Bronn. 'Tyrion's fooked off somewhere, Pod's fooked off somewhere, and Oberyn's fookin' dead!'

'It has come to my attention that, with Oberyn's unseemly demise, his infamous transportation vehicle no longer has an owner. I'm sure that you'll be able to find use for it,' said Jaime with a dastardly wink. 'Also, if you're looking for my brother, I put him in a box as a dastardly prank and shipped him off across the Narrow Sea. And Pod's off bumbling around near the Vale with Brienne of Tarth.' Jaime winked some more. 'Now ssh, you didn't hear me say any of this! You know how fucking insane Cersei gets when I try and organise a get-together with my dastardly scamp of a little bro!'

Bronn nodded to himself. 'Where is this fookin' hand then?'

Jaime tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. 'Look to the finger that points to the heart, and all shall become clear! And with that, I must be off. Send my regards to Tyrion, won't you? Tally ho!' He wiggled his eyebrows once more, and then leapt into the lake. Bronn didn't spare Jaime a second thought; he knew that Jaime's allegiance to the mudmen would guide him home along the waterways. He took no time waiting to rush into his castle. (Yeah, apparently he has a castle now. Well, if you listened to the dialogue in the show, he doesn't, but that's probably not canon. It was probably a mistranslation from the Icelandic source material. Yes, you heard us right, George R R Martin is actually a secret Icelandic, but don't tell anybody!) He grabbed his Munich Beer Festival hoodie and his packet of Khal Drago's Home Brand Peanuts, and rushed out the door, completely ignoring his wife.

It was a muggy afternoon in… a field, wherein two individuals sat. One, a glorious man with excellent hair, was Podrick, and was doing a great job at frying some bacon over a roaring fire, whilst humming to himself. Now, you may not know this, seeing as the show neglected to feature it, but Pod's eyes are now entirely white, after an exorcism to get the ghost of Syrio Forel out of his body. Fortunately, Pod was not fazed by this discrepancy, and continued to be a stand-out chap. One person who did not appreciate his wonderful efforts was Brienne of Tarth, who spends the majority of her time moping that the Stark lasses don't really need her. She had taken to wearing excessive levels of eyeliner and listening to edgy nu metal.

It was at that moment that Pod's tranquil bacon-frying ceremony was interrupted by a loud crashing and clanging noise. A huge shape put the world in shadow, as a mechanical monstrosity loomed over the horizon.

'No', muttered Pod. 'It cannot be!' Brienne snapped out of her self-inflicted pessimism and reached for her sword, gifted to her by the enigmatic beauty queen that is Jaime Lannister. Pod put a hand in front of her. 'No, no, don't,' said Pod, reaching into his pocket and feeling an oh-so-familiar branch of a certain Christmas tree. (Go read The Handover Part 1, although it doesn't make sense there either). Pod knew this machine as the transportation device of the late Oberyn Martell, known as 'The Moving Brothel', with its full crew of dancing bears and burlesque prostitutes (but not burlesque bears, that would be obscene and oddly lecherous).

'Stay here, Breadbin', said Pod, having obviously forgotten Brienne's name. 'I'll be back after completing this wacky quest, at which point we can promptly continue whatever it was that we were doing. You just simmer down and eat your bacon, I'll be back in a jiffy.'

The Moving Brothel came to a halt, and the latch at the top opened up. 'Hail, Pod, you bespangled bollock-breaker! We've got another fookin' job to do!' Pod smiled.

Tyrion was in a carriage. He'd been complaining about this shit excessively, to coincide with his new nihilistic outlook on life. He'd killed his dad (no doubt after playing too many violent video games), been victimised by his conformist older (but undeniably magnificent) brother by being put in a box as some sort of lame joke, grown an alright beard, and been sent off to Pentos with Varys, who did nothing but speak in poorly thought out riddles and read tabloid magazines. Tyrion was about to finish his 16th Um Bongo carton when he heard a ruckus on the horizon. Gee willickers, he thought to himself. As if life couldn't get any more LAME.

He gave a fleeting glance out of the window in order to reaffirm his belief that whatever was outside was no doubt relatively bogus, and was throughly surprised! A huge hulking machine lumbered across the plains towards them. This would have attracted the attention of every person within a hundred yards, were it not for the fact that The Moving Brothel was as sneaky as a snake. Tyrion sighed. He doubted he could fit an adventure into his busy schedule of running from the law and moping and Um Bongo drinking.

The Moving Brothel quietly screeched to a halt, and two glorious men clambered out of the bear door. 'Oi Tyrion, ya fookin' bastard! We're goin' on a fookin' adventure mate! Get ya shit in ordah!'

Tyrion frowned. 'You don't understand, man. I'm not the charismatic punslinger that I once was. Now I'm little more than a husk of a man, a mere Um Bongo addict.'

'But Tyrone, you don't understand!' cried Pod. 'We have another hand-related quest to partake in! Surely you wouldn't want to miss any of the hand-filled action!'

'Yeah, what say you, ya jammy bastard!' added Bronn, wise as always.

Tyrion thought for a second. 'But guys, I'm a wanted dwarf! How will I go undetected on this here quest!'

'Don't you worry yo little stumpy ass!' responded Bronn. 'I came prepared fo' this shit. Surely none o' the hired mercenaries would be expectin' ya to be wearin' a Munich Beer Festival hoodie!'

Tyrion gasped. Of course! It was a genius foolproof plan! He grabbed the hoodie and pulled it over his head, now fully disguised and ready for questing.

'Don't worry Varys, I'll be home in time for tea!' cried Tyrion, as he boarded The Moving Brothel.

And so, the three adventurers travelled onwards, into the sunset. HOWEVER! Elsewhere in Westeros, trouble and treachery was afoot! (Or should that be, A HAND!?) Petyr Baelish looked on in his crystal ball, watching The Brothel traipse through the grasslands. He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. 'My oh my, this shall not do! A trio of veteran adventurers, searching for the very hand that I need to sway my lady wife and also to do other menial but nonetheless evil things with?! This shan't do at all! I better go construct an undead mercenary to go kill them. Yes, this seems to be a sufficiently evil plan.' He chuckled to himself. Evilly, of course.

And also, faraway in a death fortress carved like a giant skull, a familiar looking antagonist with a skeletal face and stylish top hat, looked at his crystal ball, and saw Petyr Baelish looking at his own crystal ball. He grinned at the meta nature of this multi crystal ball action. I mean, you wouldn't have been able to tell that he was grinning, but trust me. He totally was grinning. And then he let out a cackle, and no children in Westeros slept that night. Which is unfortunate.

OH SHIT, WE FORGOT TO MENTION THE SMELLY FACE HOUSE THIS CHAPTER

BUT DON'T WORRY, THAT'LL BE FORTHCOMING

SO THAT'S CHAPTER 1 OF A GRAND TALE

TELL YOUR FRIENDS, AND TELL YOUR GRANDPARENTS TOO I GUESS

FOLLOW IT IF YOU WANT, IT'LL BE KIND OF ALRIGHT I GUESS, MAYBE

FUCK IT, WHATEVER


	2. Chapter 2 - FACES AND FRIENDSHIP

SO USUALLY WE HAVE SOME SORT OF GIANT-ASS PARAGRAPH WRITTEN AT THE TOP HERE

TALKING ABOUT SOME SHIT OR ANOTHER

AND SOMETIMES WE HAVE A CHAPTER DEDICATION

BUT THE THING IS, NO ONE READ THE FIRST FUCKING CHAPTER

BUT Y'KNOW, THESE THINGS TAKE TIME

ALL GOOD THINGS COME TO THOSE WHO WAIT AND ALL THAT GOOD SHIT

BUT IN THE MEAN TIME, LET'S JUMP RIGHT IN

OH WAIT, ACTUALLY, WE NEED TO SAY

THAT THIS IS, HANDS DOWN, THE DUMBEST FUCKING THING WE'VE EVER WRITTEN

BUT LIKE, FOR COMPLETELY DIFFERENT REASONS TO EVERYTHING ELSE

WE ARE LEGITIMATELY PROUD OF THIS

IT WILL NEVER BE SURPASSED

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

CHAPTER 2 - Cunts in the Smelly Face House

We open this chapter on a magnificent statue, a statue of three giant bears caught in an eternal struggle. It was no doubt a magnificent structure, and yet it connoted a feeling of despair, seeing as it represented the inevitability and yet futility of conflict in the wider world of men. Pod looked on in interest, and then farted for comedic effect.

'So where ah we gonna find this fookin' hand?!' asked Bronn, looking over at the bears that were piling coal into the roaring furnace of the Moving Brothel.

'Well, we were given a riddle, were we not?' asked Tyrion. Except he wasn't really asking, seeing as it was a rhetorical question. 'Why, when I was a boy, back in my Punslinging days, which are now far behind me due to my walking along the downtrodden path of Um Bongo addiction, we would have a bi-monthly event known as 'The Festival of Lies', wherein all the most devious and machiavellian of individuals would crowd together in a big tent and yell ambiguous and enigmatic things at one another. And from this, I have honed my riddle-solving skills to levels beyond the understanding of man. I have solved many riddles in my day, including my favourite riddle of all time.'

'Well what tha fook would that be?' asked Bronn, obviously interested in such a important matter.

'What's black and white and red all over?' asked Tyrion. He paused for effect as the others waited in anticipation. 'A panda that got caught in a fist fight!'

'Ah dude, what the fuck?!' yelled Pod. 'You can't talk about endangered species like that. Say someone were to overhear you, and take it literally, and go down to King's Landing's Zoo to beat up some animals?'

'Too fookin' right.' added Bronn, as he polished his panda rights badge. 'I may be degrading to women, but I shan't stand by and let this verbal abuse against pandas go unpunished.'

'Oh shit dude, I'm sorry. I've been in a box for like a month, so I've lost all sense of morality apparently. Let me try and make it up to you by solving this riddle.'

Tyrion furrowed his brow in concentration. 'Look to the finger that points to the heart… it is my belief that this riddle is nothing but devious reverse psychology!' Gasps ensued. 'Yes, my friends. I believe that 'the heart' is referring to love in general, and as we all know through our many sexual conquests, love is anything but BLACK AND WHITE! You see, friends? The use of love was a devious ploy, set up to turn us away from The House of Black and White!'

'That's fookin' ridiculous enough to probably be right!' shouted Bronn. 'To Braavos!'

MEANWHILE

There was some gosh-darn dubious shit going down in the sinister lair of the scrupulous scamp that is Littlefinger! He was sitting at his desk and flicking through his phonebook of antagonists. Like the Yellow Pages, but it's evil, so it's called the Red Pages. Our talent at writing is wasted here. Unfortunately, Littlefinger's good friend Jafar had been unable to make it back from Arabia, and even if he could, he was already rolling in the dosh thanks to his revolutionary meth empire, so he was out of the picture.

Suddenly, he saw that all his stationary was being knocked on the floor. Gosh darn it, he thought to himself. That damn undead mercenary he was creating was jiving out and doing the worm on his table. 'Fiddlesticks! Calm yourself, you outrageous scallywag!' cried Littlefinger, whilst flicking through the pages. Then, his eyes lit up, as his finger (which was quite little) fell onto the name of the most devious of antagonists; Count Dracula!

MEANWHILE

It was midday in Braavos, and the marketplace was jostling with excitement, because the budget was high enough to pay for a large amount of extras for filming that day. Tyrion, Bronn and Pod were seated in a gondola, as Pod rowed them along the serene waterway. Bronn was playing a lute and serenading Tyrion with a poignant love ballad, whilst Tyrion was trying to disguise his blushing by smearing tomato on his face. Their tiny boat rolled up to The House of Black and White, where upon they were greeted by a giant-ass pair of doors.

'Hey, guys. I was wondering why this building is called 'The House of Black and White' when the only parts of it that are black and white are the doors,' pondered Tyrion.

'These are the mysteries,' responded Pod. 'It's also worth mentioning that this building seems unnecessarily huge and expansive for a building that a) supposedly only holds a few members of an incredibly secretive and inconspicuous order or assassins, and b) has such a tiny door. But I guess we may never know. Let us enter.'

And so the three of them bumbled towards the door. They tried knocking, but no one answered within five seconds, so they assumed that the Faceless Men must be out getting lunch or something, so they let themselves in. Upon entry, they were greeted with a most foul and repulsive stench, one that shook their very being and seemed to choke them and surround them in a disgusting miasma of toxicity and pestilence.

'Did you just fookin' fart, Pod?' laughed Bronn. Tyrion high-fived him. (Or low-fived him, if you want to be pedantic about the issue).

The building was indeed not black and white. Rather, it was a putrid green, and also a few shades of other not very aesthetically appealing colours like brown or magenta or something. All in all, the decor left a lot to be desired. The floor was a viscous cesspit of foul-looking sludge, that stuck to the soles of the trio's shoes as they walked down the corridor.

The floor started bubbling, and out rose a man wearing a plain nondescript (but also notably slimy) robe. As the man slugged towards them, he shouted 'I am the Smelly Face Monk, Monk of the Smelly Faces!' His face was white and pasty, his face was angular and pointy, and his nose flopped down into a stubby trunk that waved as he spoke.

The trio paused for a second. 'Well, fuck,' said Tyrion. 'It appears we've made a grave mistake.'

'Excuse me, but are we mistaken in believing that this is The House of Black and White?' asked Pod.

The Smelly Face Monk chuckled heartily. 'No, my acolytes! This is the Smelly Face House! We split the rent with the frat boys who live in The House of Black and White so that we can share the building! You entered through the wrong side of the building, so you ended up here! Why'd you think the building was so bloody big, eh? You came in through the wrong door, you silly plonker! But don't worry, we have much more fun here!'

The trio followed the Smelly Face Monk as he trudged onwards, still talking. 'Those dweebs on the other side have just got a load of grim assassins who dispel their own identities and kill in the name of the Many Faced God, whilst we have a swamp, not to mention a giant axolotl! Cor, imagine that! And we have a gallery of smelly faces that we bathe in garlic juice with our garlic love! I've got nothing against those guys next door, but it wouldn't hurt them to come and party with the gang of the Smelly Faced God! I mean, it wouldn't hurt old Jaqen to come and say hello to his little brother Noel H'Ghar every once in a while!'

'Err, I'm sorry to interrupt,' butted in Tyrion. 'But we have a dire need to solve a riddle, so if you could help us out, that would be very much appreciated!'

Noel nodded. 'I know of a certain GIANT AXOLOTL that can help you out. Don't worry, he's the smartest giant axolotl in the whole world!' he said, with wonder in his eyes. Noel whistled, and a giant green face emerged from the muck. It was flat and simplistic, like a cheap paper plate mask, but its skin glistened with a shiny layer of slime, and it smiled at Noel.

'Y'right, Noel?'

'Y'right, Jeremy? Me and these fellas need to go and see the huge axolotl, for riddle-solving purposes!'

'Aye-aye, Noel! It's a good thing you arrived when you did! The huge axolotl just finished his sudoku book, and so he's in a proper problem-solving mood! Hop on gang!'

And so the gang hopped onto Jeremy, and they sailed on down the gooey river.

MEANWHLE

Littlefinger was busy drawing a picture of a sad kitten (using gel pens that he stole from his sister Bigtoes), when he heard the familiar ding-dong of the doorbell. He looked up from his drawing with glee, and stuck it with all the others on the fridge. Hopefully, Count Dracula would appreciate his noticeably evil artwork.

He skipped down the corridor, past the pile of skewered heads, and swung open the door to gaze upon his new colleague. And he was so shocked, he had to take a step back! It was… Bela Lugosi!

'Hello,' said Bela.

Littlefinger shut the door. He thought that he would almost cry. This isn't the real Dracula! He was hoping for Christopher Lee, of the Hammer Horror films fame! But instead he'd gotten the actor from the Universal films that came twenty-four years before! How could he cope with such a charlatan in his presence?

However, whilst Littlefinger was indeed evil and devious, he wasn't one to be rude, so he opened the door to greet his new guest. 'I'm sorry, B-Bela, but there was a bee on the door that I had to put outside.'

'Ah, I see,' said Bela. 'Those dang bees, eh? Always stinging children and being a nuisance!' He laughed to himself. Littlefinger laughed too, but deep down he was oh so sad, as bees were his favourite animal and he valued their role as natural pollinators. 'Please, make yourself at home!' said Littlefinger, gesturing for Bela to come inside. 'Could I offer you some coffee or tea?'

'No thanks, I only drink… BLOOD!' said Bela, laughing to himself. Littlefinger grimaced on the inside. Christopher Lee would have given a normal fucking response, he thought. 'I'm joking, of course. Do you have any Um Bongo?' Littlefinger grimaced again. He only had a vintage carton that he'd saved from his wedding night, that he didn't want to break out for such a menial occasion, but he knew that a Um Bongo refusal would be a social faux pas of the highest caliber. He went to the fridge to fetch the carton, whereupon Bela spotted Littlefinger's artwork.

'Haha, those are very lovely drawings! Did your little sister do them?' asked Bela. Littlefinger fumed on the inside. 'Yes', he forced himself to say. 'They were drawn by my ordinary sister with ordinary-sized fingers.' Littlefinger could tell that he was going to be slightly peeved by the next few sessions of evil-doing.

MEANWHILE

'So, how's the wife, Jeremy?' asked Noel.

'Y'know, not too bad.'

'And how's the job doing you? I heard you got a promotion recently!'

'Yes, Barbara was very pleased. In all honesty, I think the job is a bit lacklustre. But, y'know, I'm a giant face, and work's a bit hard to find, so you count your blessings. I guess it could be a lot worse. I could be one of those faces in the next building over, blu-tacked to a wall for ages and occasionally be taken down to be worn as a mask by some random dude who doesn't even ask about my day. They don't even have garlic juice baths there! I couldn't imagine life without my morning garlic juice bath!'

'Cor, imagine that! I know the feeling Jeremy. A good warm garlic juice bath really wakes me up for the day ahead.' The two chuckled to each other. 'Well, here's me stop. Thanks for the ride. Send my regards to Barbara and the kids, won't you?'

Jeremy laughed. 'Of course, Noel. Barbara loves hearing from you. You're quite the chivalrous gentleman. Send my love to the huge axolotl!' And with one final wave (despite the fact that Jeremy does not have hands), the two parted ways.

'So where's this fookin' axolotl then?' asked Bronn.

'He's just up here,' said Noel, pointing towards a slimy cottage. 'We've just got to ring his doorbell and he'll let us in and impart with ages-old wisdom.' Noel pushed down on the doorbell, and a jingling tune played from inside the house. The door opened, and a huge axolotl stood there on two legs. His pink skin glistened slightly. It was a sight to behold. Such a beautiful creature, thought Pod.

'Hello there, huge axolotl!'

'Hello there, Noel!' The huge axolotl spoke in a civilised manner, with a slight appealing cadence to his voice and a jolly charm to his demeanour.

'I have found some weary travellers, who have sought your great wisdom and riddle-solving capabilities!'

'Well golly. Come along now, travellers, let me hear this riddle.'

And so Tyrion told him the riddle. The huge axolotl concentrated for a second, his bulbous feeler things pulsing with thoughtful bioluminescence. He then opened his wisdom-filled eyes and looked at them. 'Well, I'll be damned. In all my days as the riddle master, I have never found a riddle so wrapped in enigma. I simply cannot comprehend it.'

'Well shit,' said the trio in unison.

'However, say one thing for the giant axolotl, say that he will not let a friend go away empty-handed. And so, I will bestow upon you a gift; a vision of the future, to help you on your travels. Will the most level-headed of you step forward.' After some quick arguments and fistfights, it was concluded that Tyrion should be the one to step forward. As he did, the huge axolotl raised one of its stubby arms, and faced its stubby hand towards Tyrion. The lumpy flesh began to reform, and a crude smiling face appeared in the huge axolotl's open palm. The newly-formed face and Tyrion engaged in eye contact, and the surroundings blurred.

Many things passed through Tyrion's head; Podrick's farts, manatees, unending darkness in a world of sorrow, cake, naked ginger forest lasses dancing around a statue of Syrio Forel in a scene vaguely reminiscent of The Wicker Man, except the paganism has been replaced with Forel-ism - but above all, Tyrion saw a phrase, etched into his retinas as they burned so harshly before him. 'BEWARE THE ONE WHO STINKS OF DOG'. He wasn't entirely sure as to what it meant, but such was the nature of ambiguous prophecies.

And then they left.


	3. Chapter 3 - WE NEED ROOM FOR RIDDLES

AYO FRIENDS

HERE WE ARE AGAIN, POSTING CHAPTER 3

ALTHOUGH PEOPLE AREN'T EVEN READING THIS

SO WHY WE'RE STILL WRITING THIS IS A MYSTERY EVEN TO US

PERHAPS I CAN USE THIS SPACE TO SAY THAT I BELIEVE THAT TYENE IS THE HOTTEST SAND SNAKE

ALTHOUGH THE OTHER BASTARD WHO I WRITE THIS WITH DISAGREES, AND CLAIMS THAT NYMERIA IS WAY BETTER

BUT WHILST THIS MAY BE A MATTER OF OPINION, HE IS WRONG

I MEAN, THAT'S NOT TO SAY THAT NYMERIA ISN'T WORTHY OF ATTENTION AND RESPECT

BUT COME ON MAN, SEE THE LIGHT

OKAY, ON WITH THIS SHIT

Chapter 3 - Rest In Peace Bazza

It was six in the morning in Littlefinger's whimsical treehouse cottage, and Littlefinger was tucked up in bed, his merry nightcap balanced at a jaunty angle atop the crown of his head. He snored peacefully. However, his peace was not to last, as he was awoken by a loud discordant creaking noise that emanated throughout the foundations of his cottage. Littlefinger felt a twinge of shock, but then the realisation kicked in, and he frowned. He'd seen Bela getting the construction crew to bring in his loud creaky coffin the day before, so that noise was no doubt the loud creaky coffin. The sign that Bela was out and about, and ready to start the day ahead.

Littlefinger walked downstairs and saw Bela in the kitchen, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in one hand and a jovial oven mitt in the other.

'What are you doing?' queried Littlefinger, as civil as he could manage.

'Oh, hello there, my fellow partner in evil-doing!' said Bela. 'I'm just cooking us a fry-up! Or should I say, a DIE-up!' He laughed loudly to himself. Littlefinger forced on a weak smile, but deep down, he was dead inside.

'Oh, by the way, you have a voicemail message on the telephone device! I decided to leave it to you, though. I can't use recent technology, I've been locked up in a crypt for two hundred years!' said Bela, turning back to his bacon on the stove. Littlefinger was just wondering why Bela would need a oven mitt for an activity like that when he arrived at the phone, and clicked 'play'.

'…Hello, Mr Baelish, it's the Agency of Evil-Doers. Just here to tell you that Christopher Lee still isn't avai-' Littlefinger quickly stopped the recording.

'What was that?' queried Bela, looking behind him at the phone. 'Christopher Lee? Why are you calling for that schmuck? You're not trying to replace me, are you?' Bela laughed, as if that possibility were impossible.

Littlefinger chuckled nervously. 'No, no, of course not. I'm inviting him to a party I'm throwing.'

'A party?!' cried Bela. 'Oh, I love parties! I hope I'm on the list!' Bela laughed some more. 'Now come on, eat your bacon! We must go back to the evil-doers drawing board. Or should that be… the GNAWING board?!'

Littlefinger weeped internally.

MEANWHILE

'Beware the one who stinks of dog.' Tyrion had repeated the phrase in his head over and over again, and yet had not been able to make sense of it. It could refer to any one person; Shaggy, the Dogman from 'The First Law' Trilogy, Ethan Chandler, Lassie, anyone! Anybody on the planet, or any other planet, for that matter. There was no one that Tyrion could think of who even slightly related to dogs, no one at all! Tyrion was getting pissed off at the ambiguity of this shit. Not to mention the fact that it seemed as though his solving of the previous 'look to the finger that points to the heart' hadn't really gotten them anywhere. So they were back to square 1. They had stopped at a nearby petrol garage in Braavos, wherein Pod was reading the latest edition of Ser Jorah Mormont's fishing magazine, and Bronn was no doubt being witty somewhere. Tyrion was left with nothing but his own thoughts, and they weren't very good company.

Luckily for Tyrion, his loneliness was interrupted with the arrival of a new face. Surprisingly, this man was the same height as Tyrion, and wore a long black coat adorned with badges of white and silver. His face was shrouded with a neckscark, his top hat was immaculately kept, and he kept his hands firmly placed in his large coat pockets, even as he strided towards Tyrion.

Tyrion looked shocked. 'Who are you, to stroll with such menace in a tranquil environment such as this?'

'I am the Riddle Master,' spoke the other dwarf. His voice was nasally, and vaguely Northern. No, not like from the North, but Northern as in he's from Liverpool. Westeros Liverpool, that is. 'And I have come to this humble petrol station because I heard that a riddling rapscallion is in town.'

'Why, yes, I suppose', said Tyrion. 'Although I've fallen on hard times.' He attempted to shove the five Um Bongo cartons he was carrying into his pockets. 'Why do you ask?'

'Well, no doubt you may have guessed that I'm called the Riddle Master for a reason.'

'Err, actually, no. I hadn't really made the link.'

'Shit, really?'

'Yeah. Sorry man, I'm good with riddles, but explicitly stated information just goes right past me. It's a curse.'

'Regardless of that, it must be said that my riddling skills are not to be trifled with. These badges that adorn my coat are of all the riddling contests that I have won. And it is my job to seek out those who are worthy, and to show them the way to glory.'

'How do you mean?'

'In the sewers of Braavos, there are competitions, wherein those with the sharpest of minds and fastest of wits enter the Riddling Ring, to assert dominance and win the respect of the Elder Riddlers. These Elders have the power to solve any riddle known to man, or anything other than man. Apparently they can even comprehend the riddles of anteaters, which we all know is an impressive feat.'

'Why, that's exactly what me and my adventuring crew need! What a serendipity your arrival is turning out to be!' Tyrion stopped, and his smile dropped. 'I can't come with you', he mumbled. 'My life is in shambles, plagued by the curse of Um Bongo addiction.'

The Riddle Master looked at him sympathetically. 'That is not the sort of talk I would hear of such a man as you! A man renowned throughout the lands as a solver of riddles, a master of mind bogglers, a exceptional Scrabble player! Balls to the Um Bongo addiction; addiction doesn't change who we really are! The best men manage to find strength, even in their weakness.'

Tyrion looked up into the middle distance, a look of determination on his proud face. 'You know what, you're right! Take me to the Ring!'

And so, the two dwarves strode away. Moments later, Bronn swaggered in, a burrito in his hands. He nudged Pod, and gestured to his burrito. 'Y'know wha' ah love about tha burritos here?' he asked. 'They manage t' get tha balance of mint and salad just fookin' right! And I should know, I took Maths A-Level, although it was Maths O-Level back in mah day!' He chuckled to himself. 'Ah shit, where the fook's Tyrion?'

Pod didn't look up from his magazine. 'I don't know, Broom. I heard he was off on a journey of self-discovery or something.'

Bronn shrugged. 'Ah well, we'll give it ten minutes or whateva, and then we'll break oot the Movin' Brothel. It's not like we're in a roosh or nothin'; these burritos are really fookin' good and I don't want to deprive tha bears of buyin' a couple.'

MEANWHILE

Littlefinger was making a packed lunch for his undead mercenary. He made a peanut butter sandwich (making sure to cut the crusts off), and put in a packet of nutritional biscuits and a small tub of fruit salad. He tucked it away into a small lunchbox.

'But Littlefinger,' called Bela from round the corner. 'Shouldn't you give him some of this wonderful black pudding I made?'

'Why would we give him that?' asked Littlefinger.

'Because… look! It's got BLOOOOOOD in it!' Bela laughed.

Littlefinger ignored him as he tucked the lunchbox away into his mercenary's backpack. He skipped into the hallway and saw his precious mercenary watching Spongebob on the TV. Littlefinger had to admit, the merging of human and animal body parts was difficult even for him. The results were a bit shoddy in places, but overall, the aesthetic was satisfactory. After all, he'd found the body, so he might as well find a half-decent use for it. Plus, the opportunity to put a hound's head on the body of the Hound was too good an opportunity to miss, even if it was a pain in the ass dragging the corpse of the Hound up across the Riverlands.

'Hound! Come here!' called Littlefinger. The Hound lifted his head from the TV screen, and looked up at Littlefinger, wagging his weird mutated tail. For all of Littlefinger's weird undead mercenaries, this one was the most kooky.

Bela pushed past Littlefinger and stared at the Hound, mouth agape. 'Wow, would you look at this fine specimen!' he laughed. He started prodding the Hound's weird dirty body.

'What are you playing at Bela?' asked Littlefinger. 'Leave the Hound alone! He's in a fragile stage of his sensitive period right now, and we need to be forming attachments to him, not poking and prodding him!'

'Ah, come on!' said Bela. 'I wouldn't hurt a fly! Unless, of course, it would be an especially evil thing to do!'

Littlefinger handed the Hound his backpack, which the Hound took in a swipe of its weird fleshy paw claw. As Bela was assisting the Hound in adjusting the straps on the backpack, Littlefinger began to wonder; he had the body of the Hound, but where oh where was the Hound's head?! Oh well, he guessed it was just one of life's many mysteries, and had an evil chuckle to himself about the futility of existence. Bela joined in, so Littlefinger immediately stopped.

And so, with a final farewell, the Hound set off on his quest to go and kill some devious hand hunters. Littlefinger felt a tear in his eye, and he wasn't quite sure if it was sadness of the Hound's departure, or whether it was just Bela making another shitty vampire joke.

MEANWHILE

Tyrion felt as though he'd been travelling for quite some time now. Of course, this may have just been because he'd grown accustomed to travelling in the Moving Brothel (which is hella fast, in case you hadn't guessed), or maybe it was just because he was a dwarf. However, the Riddle Master did not seem fazed by the journey, squeezing through the crowds and ducking underneath obstacles, forever keeping his hands in his pockets. What an idiosyncratic character trait, thought Tyrion.

Finally, the Riddle Master gestured for Tyrion to climb down a hole, assumedly leading to the sewers. Tyrion climbed down the rusty ladder and felt himself up to his knees in sewer, but up to his brains in riddles! Just the sense of riddles in the air was undeniable. As he saw flickering lights down the tunnel, and heard the shouting of enigmatic/devious statements, he knew that he had found his calling.

AIGHT, SO THIS'LL BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

STAY TUNED FOR TERRIBLE RIDDLES, BETRAYAL AND LOVE, AND QUITE POSSIBLY SOME MUDMEN AND THEIR TRADE ROUTES (AY, AY?!)


	4. Chapter 4 - RIDDLES RUN RAMPANT

SO THIS IS KIND OF LIKE AN EXPOSITION CHAPTER, DUE IN PART TO TWO THINGS

1) WE'RE KEEPING IN TUNE WITH THE FACT THAT THIS WEEK'S EPISODE WAS KIND OF LIKE AN EXPOSITION CHAPTER

AND 2) WE HAVE EXAMS THIS WEEK

AND SO IN OUR TIME THAT WE SHOULD SPEND REVISING, WE'RE WRITING ABOUT RIDDLES AND HAND THEFT

I WILL TAKE THIS OPPORTUNITY TO SAY THAT I AM HUMBLY SORRY FOR FORCING MY VIEWS AS TO WHO I BELIEVE TO BE THE HOTTEST SAND SNAKE

POPULAR OPINON DICTATES THAT I WAS WRONG TO SAY THAT TYENE IS THE HOTTEST, AND APPARENTLY NYMERIA IS BETTER, BUT Y'KNOW, FUCK IT WHATEVER MAN

ALSO, WE HAVE FOUND A WAY TO CONTINUE OUR TIME-HONOURED TRADITION OF COMPULSIVE SWEARING, SO GET HYPED FOR THAT

AIGHT, WRITING AND STUFF

CHAPTER 4 - Riddling and Fiddling

Tyrion gazed around him at the subterranean clearing he had entered in wonder. Expanding beneath him was a giant collection of stadium seats, overlooking a small pit filled with black sand. In this pit stood two men, facing one another on opposite podiums. These were the Riddlers that were being tested today, thought Tyrion.

One of the men was a small, with ratty features and pointed yellowing buck teeth. The other man was corpulent and sweaty, with glistening red skin like a saveloy and a big grin on his face, a grin similar to a hungry man who has just been handed a saveloy. Overseeing the Riddlers were a crowd of men of all different shapes and sizes, and looking over them was a man with a bird's head sitting atop a umpire's chair. The High Riddler of the Elder Riddlers.

Tyrion shuffled down the stairs and looked over the rail, into the Riddling Ring. The small mousy man snickered at his opponent, cleared his throat, and yelled a obscure riddle. 'The lion men arise, and they hunt for your fishermen!' There was a collective holding of breath from the crowd.

The sausage man pondered this for a moment, before snapping his fingers and shouting, 'Mega Man S02E07, Curse of the Lion Men!' The words resounded around the arena, to the cheers of the masses. The black sand started making a beeping sound, before turning green to signify a successful riddle had been solved.

Sausage Man pointed at Mouse Man, and shouted out his riddle. 'Shake shake, hazel tree! Gold and silver over me!' Mouse Man starts pondering, and than starts wondering, and then his feeble little mouse mind just can't contemplate the complexity of this conundrum! Before admitting defeat, his look of anguish triggers the black sand to begin beeping once more, this time turning red. The sand begin to part, and as Mouse Man's final screams of 'Forgive me Riddlers, for I have been out-riddled!' filled the arena, the sands swallowed him whole. The crowds began cheering once more, and Mouse Man's hand was regurgitated by the sand onto Sausage Man's podium. Sausage Man held it above his head, claiming it as his victory prize. Whilst the crowds cheered, a small mouse-aesthetic child cried, vowing revenge against House Sausage.

The crowds began to disperse to other smaller groups away from the rail, as the sand began to bleep to signify the usual ten-minute interval to allow the sand to digest its victim. Tyrion decided to try and blend in with his fellow riddle enthusiasts. He approached a small group of people seated in a semi-circle.

'I can't believe what happened in that match!' exclaimed an overweight man with a panda hat. (We need to panda to the pandas). 'There was some hardcore riddling to be seen, make no mistake!'

'I agree with you there', said a man with an impressive moustache clothed entirely in multi-coloured belts.' From the other side of the table, Graham, a mudman, nodded his head, simultaneously organising statistics for his trading route canal and filing a lawsuit against DB Weiss and David Benioff for stealing original content ideas from 'The Handover (lol geddit)', and rehashing them as so-called 'stone men', which is a stupid idea because we all know that greyscale is actually when you splash around in a mud puddle for a bit and then don't clean it so it gets all crackly and nasty looking.

'Can I join you guys?' asked Tyrion.

'Yeah, sure. Come on over. I know a riddler when I see one, so you'll fit right in with us', replied the panda hat man.

'Oh, shucks. I'm more of a riddle amateur. In all honesty, my forte was puns, until a… FAMILY TRAGEDY.' He looked into an invisible camera on his right with a ominous look. 'Now not a single pun can pass through my lips. I'm Tyrion, by the way.'

The belt man looked on with a sense of innate understanding. 'Isn't that how we all enter this position? A tragedy sweeps us from our past lives into this world of never-ending sorrow and confusing statements? For example, Pandaman used to be a panda rights activist, until he got a little too friendly with the pandas, if you know what I mean.' Pandaman let out a solemn growl. 'I, Beltman, used to be an architect, until my pen ran out of ink. You know how hard it is to find pens in this fantasy universe, don't you? Very hard indeed! There aren't any pens! Oh, and I was also attacked by a herd of angry belts, but that's unrelated. After managing to tame the beasts, I now use them as armour against people's bad words to protect my supple flesh and fragile feelings. Graham… well, he still does his trade routes. I mean, a mudman never sleeps when it comes to his trade routes. It's not just a job for mudmen, it's a way of life. But he still has time to go to riddling competitions, hence the reason he's here.' Graham smiled a little bit, and gave a slight nod before returning to his mud-soaked abacus.

'Oh, I killed my dad,' said Tyrion. The three new riddling compadres nodded approvingly.

Suddenly, they heard the euphonious sound of the rap air horn emanating from the sand. It was time for a new competitor to enter the Riddling Ring.

MEANWHILE

Arya Stark sat outside the House of Black and White. She'd been quite disappointed with the service that she'd been given, on account of her having waited there for a few days. The only good part of the wait was when an enigmatic pasty trunk men who smelled oddly of garlic juice skipped along and offered her a platter of face-shaped cakes. Apparently, they were worth fifty pigeons in the Braavosi marketplace (pigeons are the currency of Braavos, as we all know). And so Arya sat on the stairs, in the cold and the rain, munching on a green-icing covered face-shaped cake, chanting her shopping list to herself. All of a sudden, she heard a slight rumbling noise. A rumbling noise that was oh so familiar to her…

BAM! A fucking huge-ass monster truck comes careening round the corner, with the words 'What happens in Munich stays in Munich!' carved into the bumper. Above the roar of the engine, Arya heard the word 'cunt' being yelled incredibly loudly by a familiar voice.

The monster truck immediately crashed into the water, and started to sink to the bottom. Luckily, the driver of the truck was buoyant, and floated to the top. But… gasp! It's not a whole person at all! It's merely a sentient head! A head of… The Hound! Oh shit son!

Arya fished the Hound's head out of the water, to constant spluttering of 'cunt' and 'fucker' and 'you devious scoundrel' and other such expletives.

'Sandor!' cried Arya. 'Why are you alive?'

'I think the better question is, why the fuck did you fucking leave me, you absolute slag!'

'That's not exactly a coherent answer. And I thought I was doing a dramatic gesture, to show my character development.'

'Dramatic gesture my fucking stump!' spat the Hound. 'Alright you wench, this can all be considered water under the bridge if you do something for me.'

'I dunno man, altruism isn't really a defining character trait of me-'

'Shut your bitch mouth. You're gonna help me find my body, you're gonna get me a temporary body, and you and me are gonna fuck shit up!'

'I mean, I'm kinda busy with training to become a Faceless One or somethi-'

'I don't give a rat's ass about your future, I care about being able to fucking walk! You owe me one, you fat whore.'

'Hey man, that's just rude. That's crossing the line. You can't say that in this day and age.'

'I just did, horsecock. Now come on, let's go find me a new body,' said the Hound, beginning to slowly roll away.

Arya sighed, and continued after him. 'So, if you're only a head, how did you drive the truck?'

'Shut up.'

MEANWHILE

And so another round had ended, and Sausage Man was successful once again, his opponent (a stocky Australian man covered in coarse grey hair) fallen to the sand's hunger.

'Sausage Man sure is on fire today!' exclaimed Pandaman.

'Well of course he is,' responded Beltman. 'He wouldn't have gotten this far were it not for his excellence riddling skills. Although I must say, that takedown was rather brutal.' Graham nodded.

'I don't think I can think of a single person with riddle skills as great as his!' said Pandaman.

Tyrion cleared his throat. 'Guys, can I try and hit you with a riddle? It's one of my favourites.'

The trio nodded. 'Of course, we'll always support a need to riddle.'

'Okay, so. This might seem a little bit rusty, but I'll say it anyway. What's black and white and red all over?… A panda that got caught in a fist fight!'

There was an awkward silence as the impact of the riddle sunk in. All of a sudden, Graham burst out into hysterics. Like, full on convulsions of laughter! He almost dropped his abacus he was laughing so hard, which is especially impressive considering that mudmen have sticky sticky adhesive fingers. This sudden outburst of laughter attracted the looks of almost everyone in the arena. And then, all of a sudden, the familiar rap air horn sounded, but this time it was accompanied by a tannoy announcement. 'Please can we welcome to the Ring, our new Riddler competitor Tyrion!' Tyrion and his friends gasped, but Tyrion knew that his time had come. As he strode forth to the podium, time seemed to go in slow-motion for him. As he looked to the side, he saw a face, white as bone and hidden partially beneath a black hood. Or rather, it wasn't a face, but rather a lack of one, such as might be found on a skeleton… no, of course not. What a foolish idea. Tyrion shook his head silently as he walked towards his podium, to rock the Ring with his riddles.

SO WE DIDN'T MENTION FIDDLING IN HIS CHAPTER

BUT SO WHAT MAN

CHAPTER 1 HAD NO SMELLY FACE HOUSE

CHAPTER 2 HAD NO CUNTS IN THE SMELLY FACE HOUSE, THEY WERE ALL RELATIVELY NICE PEOPLE/FACES/AXOLOTLS

CHAPTER 3 HAD NOT EVEN ONE MENTION OF BAZZA (MAY HE REST IN PEACE)

SO Y'KNOW, THE THEME OF THE CHAPTER NAMES IS… THEY'RE ALL LIES

BUT EXPECT FIDDLES (AND MORE RIDDLES) IN CHAPTER 5, WHICH IS OUR MID-SEASON FINALE AND MAY BE SLIGHTLY BETTER THAN THIS

BUT PROBABLY NOT


	5. Chapter 5 - THE RIDDLING RESOLUTION

GOOD DAY FRIENDS

I SHALL USE THIS HERE SPACE TO STATE THAT THE ARGUMENT THAT SPANNED THE LAST TWO CHAPTERS OF THIS STORY HAS BEEN CONSIDERED MOOT

WHILST THE IDENTITY OF THE HOTTEST SAND SNAKE REMAINS A MYSTERY, IT HAS BEEN CONCLUDED THAT NONE OF THE THREE CAN PARTICIPATE IN A DECENT FIGHT SCENE

SO REALLY, WHAT MATTER IS THE ATTRACTIVENESS OF THE SAND SNAKES WHEN THE FUNCTION OF THE CHARACTERS IS DISAPPOINTING?

TO BUSINESS

Chapter 4: We Told You There Would Be Fiddling

It was chaos in the petrol station. The hellfire demons had whipped out their brimstone-encrusted fiddles, and were playing away maniacally. As the cacophony of a dozen demons screeching their bows along the strings of their fiddles, the floor began to shudder and shake, and food produce began to fall off of the shelves and catch on fire. Bronn and Pod were standing on separate hickory stumps with their own ostentatious instruments, and army of bears doing the same behind them (although the bears did not have hickory stumps). Bronn shouted over the racket, 'I guess ya didn't know it, but I'm a fiddle playa too, and if ya'd care tah make ah dare I'm gonna took wit' ya!'

MEANWHILE, IN A LAND LESS STUPID (ARGUABLY)

'What has antlers, a high pitched voice, and wears gloves?' shouted the man standing opposite Tyrion. The man wore a scuba outfit, which only barely disguised the fact that he had a shiny new robot body.

Tyrion snorted in response to this riddle, faffing about with the many hands that he had accumulated from his past victories and constructed into a haphazard necklace. 'That's the oldest riddle in the Riddling Book! The answer is… Mickey Moose!' The sand flashed green once more, and the cheers erupted. Tyrion gleamed; he'd never gotten so much recognition for his talents since before his dark days of Um Bongo-ism. It got him thinking, perhaps there is another way… a road to recovery, a path away from his dark addiction. But then he looked down into his hand, saw the carton of Um Bongo, and knew that there was no running away from this fate.

He sighed, and then turned to his opponent, thinking for a second as to what riddle he should hit the robot scuba man with next. 'A monkey, a squirrel and a humble squire are racing up a coconut tree. Who will get the banana first?'

Tyrion's opponent, who was called James McGrath (this isn't really relevant to the overarching story, but we just felt it necessary to remind you that this man is a human being, especially considering the fact that the new characters introduced last chapter were called Pandaman, Beltman, Mouse Man, Sausage Man, and Graham), started to sweat and gibber. He's about to slip up, thought Tyrion.

'Err, t-the squirrel?' queried James McGrath.

The siren sound of the sand's dissatisfaction sounded out, and James McGrath uttered one last shocked syllable before falling into the abyss. Tyrion laughed to himself. 'That idiot! There are no bananas in a coconut tree!' The sand laughed with him, coughing out James McGrath's hand. Tyrion caught it, and latched it onto his twine necklace.

'Alright, so who's next?' shouted Tyrion. But the crowds were not so keen as to throw their lives away that easily. Tyrion smiled, thinking that he had won. He knew of the Riddling Ring tradition; when all other opponents have been beaten or dissuaded from riddling, you use your collected hands to form a hand chain, with which you use to slap the face of the Elder Riddler. This will wake him from his slumber, at which point he will impart his ancient bird-like riddling knowledge upon you. As Tyrion began to pull his hand necklace over his head, he heard a voice shouting out. 'Wait!' It was a voice he recognised. All was silent in the Riddling Arena as the sound of footsteps echoed off of the walls. The tension was high, as the speaker stepped forward. Gasps were ensued, for it was none other than the Riddle Master!

'I have come to challenge you,' he said.

MEANWHILE

It was a beautiful day, as Littlefinger was driving down to Sainsbury's in his family van. Bela was riding shotgun, and Sansa was in the baby seat in the back. Littlefinger was relaxing to some good old Limp Bizkit, a band he saw play live in 2003. Good times. He was leaning back and taking a sip of his chocolate milkshake out of his 'Best and Notably Evil Dad' mug, when Bela sat upright. He'd been sleeping for a few hours, because the sun was a bit too bright. 'What is this?' he asked Littlefinger.

'Why, it's the influential American nu metal band, Limp Bizkit,' responded Littlefinger. 'I find Fred Durst to be a very stylish and beautiful man.'

Bela smiled, exposing his cheap novelty vampire teeth. 'No friend, this isn't the best music! Watch this!' And Bela turned the radio station over to Organ Music FM. The euphonious bellow of the organ resounded throughout the car, and Bela shut his eyes with a smile on his face, waving his hands as if conducting the music. Sansa was disapproving, and started making sad Sansa noises. Like, more sadder than her usual sadness, because she is kind of sad by default. (Note: we appreciate that this is not the best time to be discussing Sansa's situation, but you can't deny that one of her many identifiable character traits in the show is that she's quite sad. In all honesty, whilst all the fans of Game of Thrones are bitching at the creators for supposedly ruining Sansa's character, they should at the very least be lucky that we aren't writing for it. All of her dialogue would be reduced to sad Sansa sounds and lemon cake references. Dude, literally, I read the first book, and Sansa fucking loves lemon cakes. We'll include a line in this story at some point when Sansa just says 'lemon cakes', just for the fans).

If there's one thing that Littlefinger does not stand for, it's witnessing Sansa more sad than usual. No doubt that he'd have to buy Sansa a significant quantity of lemon cakes to make up for this folly. For all of Bela's annoyances, he'd never once made Sansa sad. It was at this point when Littlefinger had to make a decision.

He stopped the family van, jerking Bela out of his seat. He looked up from the floor and grinned at Littlefinger. 'Why have you stopped?' asked Bela. 'Is there a problem?'

Littlefinger grimaced at Bela. 'Are you really that ignorant to see the trouble and strife that you have caused? The constant streams of social faux pas and blatantly offensive or harmful remarks, simply done in the name of retaining your idiotic vampire persona? Which, I must add, is kind of poor!'

Bela gasped. 'Y-you mean it?' he asked, tears in his vampire eyes.

'Yes, I mean it. I believe that, not just for my sake, but for Sansa's, you need to leave, and go and find another partner in evil-doing. I shall do the same.'

Bela didn't say anything. No shitty vampire puns, no light-hearted remarks, only infinite sadness. He opened the door of the van, turns to Littlefinger, and said, 'You've just hammered a stake of sadness through my black heart.' He ran away in tears. Littlefinger showed no remorse as he continued to drive down to Sainsbury's.

MEANWHILE

Arya and the Hound were seated around a bonfire as the night grew darker. They'd managed to find a temporary body for the Hound; that of a nondescript but also remarkably non-threatening long-haired chihuahua named Diesel. This dog had weird bulging eyes, but it mattered little, seeing as you only see it's head when the Hound opened his mouth. Yes, my friends, the Hound has a hollow head that was stuffed onto the pre-existing head of another animal. That's how biology works. But in order to escape from any claims of animal cruelty on our parts, let us make perfectly clear that Diesel is not drastically hindered by this mitigating circumstance, nor reluctant to play his part. Like the clownfish and the anemone, the two creatures live in natural harmony, due to the Hound being friendly to all dogs, much to his namesake. That's how he got it. He also has a wildlife preservation centre, but that's another story.

The two had been seated in silence for a while, chowing down on a cheeky Nando's they'd picked up on the way here. But Arya decided that she needed to break the silence.

'Are you in a good-enough mood to tell me how you got here?'

The Hound (or at least the Hound's chihuahua body) sat in quiet contemplation for a moment. 'Well, I have chowed down on enough chicken to enter a state of euphoria that counteracts my usual trait of being really fuckin' angry. Fuck it, I'll tell you.' Arya leant back, ready for story time.

'So there I was, lying on my fuckin' ass after having my ass beat by that giant woman Brienne or whatever the fuck her name was. And then you left me, which was a fuckin' poor gesture, but it's not as if I could do fuck all about it. I was content to die.

'But then, a man approached me. Skittish in his natures, walked with an exaggerated hunched back, pointy fucking teeth. Called himself Mouse Man. I empathised with him immediately; us wilderness-dwelling cutthroats with animal-themed names need to fuckin' stick together, y'know?

'We gets talkin'. He tells me his story. He had a life once, a patch o' land and a wife and kids and all that other shit. They was taken from him, he says. Were told some sort of riddle that was so fuckin' wrapped in enigma and hard to fuckin' understand that it drove the poor fuckers mad. Mouse Man found 'em writhing on the floor, frothing at the mouth and all that other nasty shit.

'So he says, 'fuck that, I'm gonna fight fire with fire, and get me ass down to where the riddles are at'. And so there he fuckin' was, on his way from his farm up north, travelling to some riddling society across the Narrow Sea, in Braavos. I tell him that I've got a truck that'll get his ass down to Braavos a hell of a lot faster than walking, says I got no more use for the bastard thing.

'But he offers to drag me away and get me to someone who'll patch me up, says he knows a real good guy for that kind of shit. But here's the thing; the weak bastard couldn't fuckin' lift all of me. Guess I'd eaten too much fuckin' chicken that day. So he does what any sane fuckin' man would do, and chops off me fuckin' head, covers the bleeding stump in plasters, throws what's left of me in the back o' the truck and hauls ass back down to Braavos.

'Despite me being a fuckin' head, he keeps his word, places me in the hands of this fuckin' monk with a trunk who stinks o' some sickly fuckin' garlic juice. He stops the bleeding, gets me in workin' order, puts a brick on the accelerator o' the truck and sends me off in search o' a new life.'

Arya paused in thought. 'How long were you actually in that truck for?'

'About ten seconds.'

'So, what, you left the Smelly Face House, drove around to the other side of the building, saw me, and immediately crashed the truck?'

'Yep.'

'Hmm. In all honesty, I'm a bit disappointed with the whole 'brick on the accelerator' thing. Seems a bit anticlimactic. You built it up to be something more than tha-'

'Shut your bitch mouth.'

Silence settled upon the pair of them once more. Well, mostly silent, save for the munching of chicken.

MEANWHILE

The heat was on for Tyrion. The Riddle Master really was what he said he was: a seemingly unbeatable master of riddles. He was answering riddles and then throwing them back at Tyrion faster than the sand could respond. It was continuously blinking all sorts of colours, making the arena seem more like a strobe light show at a rave or something. A very dangerous vaguely-medieval rave with an explicit focus on riddles, mind you.

'All of the slides are blue, regardless of what the confederates say!' shouted Tyrion.

'The research of Moscovici into finding out if a constant minority can affect a majority,' responded the Riddle Master effortlessly. 'Contains moderate lion and a pinch of rangers.'

Tyrion thought hard. 'That's a combination of the Lion King Musical and the DVD cover for the Disney film 'The Lone Ranger'! God, that's not even a riddle!'

'It's confusing enough that it fits within the boundaries of this competition', responded the Riddle Master, cool as a cucumber.

'Gah!' exclaimed Tyrion. In his anguish, he undid the clasp holding his hand necklace on, and he swung it at the Riddle Master with all his might. The Riddle Master flinched, and then whipped his hand out of his pocket to swipe away the hand whip.

As he whipped his hand out, something fell from his pocket and tumbled away, only to plop into the sand. Suddenly, the Riddle Master's expression turned to that of pure terror. The sand stopped flashing colours and began blaring a deafening sound, whilst flashing a word on its surface: 'CHEATER'. The crowd gasped, and Tyrion realised something: the Riddle Master had dropped his iPhone into the sand! He'd been quickly Googling the answers to all of the riddles that anyone has ever thrown at him with his lightning-fast fingers! That's why he always kept his hands in his pockets; to hide the iPhone, and to hide the stench of cheating-ness!

The Riddle Master began to scream and shout as the sand rose up from the pit below them, circling the Riddle Master in numerous long extraneous tendrils. They fired into the Riddle Master's body, the sand granules embedding into his skin. His body began to sag; it lost its colour, becoming grey and lifeless, and the skin appeared to shrink, exposing the outline of his bone structure. His eyes popped in clouds of dust, and streams of sand began to sprout forth from the empty sockets. Within twenty seconds, his body had entirely decomposed and malformed, until only the sand remained.

Tyrion dragged his hand whip back towards him before swinging it around in an arc and slapping the Elder Riddler in the face. He awoke with a gasp, and began to speak in a dreamy otherworldly voice the Final Riddle:

_'Way down deep in the middle of the Congo,_

_A hippo took an apricot, a guava and a mango._

_He stuck it with the others and he danced a dainty tango._

_The rhino said, 'I know, we'll call it…''_

At that moment, Tyrion realised that the answer to this riddle lay within him. He knew the answer to the riddle, and it was because of his addiction that he despised oh so much. Despite the Riddle Master's position as a cheating scoundrel, it was just as he said; Tyrion could use his weaknesses as strengths.

'The answer', said Tyrion, pausing for dramatic effect, 'is Um Bongo!'

There was silence, and then the Elder Riddler gave Tyrion a mighty thumbs up, ensuing the righteous applause of all the riddlers in the arena. 'Well done, you have solved the Final Riddle, Tyrion of House Lannister. To what riddle do you seek the answer of?'

'Look to the finger that points to the heart', answered Tyrion.

The Elder Riddler focused all of his riddle solving capabilities into figuring out the answer. As he relaxed his concentration, a fax machine in the corner rumbled into life, and ejected out a crumpled piece of paper. The answer to the riddle!

'Thanks, chief!' said Tyrion, picking up the paper. It said, 'There is literally a giant fuck-off hand in the middle of the ocean, with a huge finger pointing to a tiny island called 'The Heart'. It's so bloody obvious. This is like, basic geography man. You didn't need to spend all this time fighting through the riddling ranks, you could have just bought a map. Twat.' Curses, thought Tyrion. My ineptitude of noticing obvious information fails me once more.

Suddenly, the ceiling collapsed, crushed beneath the mighty foot of the Moving Brothel. 'Come the fuck on Tyrion, we've just beaten the Demon King in a fiddling match and we need to bail before he finds out we gave him false names.' shouted Pod. 'Where we headed?'

Tyrion smiled. 'Set course for the Heart!'

There was a pause. 'What the fook are you on about?' asked Bronn. 'That sounds like some sort of 80s love ballad.'

'You know what, never mind. I'll explain in a sec,' responded an exasperated Tyrion.

HALFWAY POINT DONE

NEXT WEEK WILL BE BETTER (MAYBE)


	6. Chapter 6 - PIRATES AND PENISES

Y'ARIGHT?

SORRY FOR THE WEEK'S DELAY, WE WERE BUSY WATCHING GOOSEBUMPS AND THINGS GOT OUT OF HAND

BUT BASICALLY, WE'RE BACK NOW, SO DON'T YOU WORRY YOUR LITTLE BRAIN HOLE

ALSO, WE NEED TO DISCUSS THE NEW EVIDENCE THAT CAME TO LIGHT REGARDING THE HOTTEST SAND SNAKE TOPIC OF DEBATE

NAMELY THE FACT THAT TYENE HAS BANGIN' MILKMUGS ('MILKMUG' BEING AN INNOCUOUS EUPHEMISM FOR DEM TITTIES)

SO MY ORIGINAL STATEMENT OF TYENE BEING THE HOTTEST SAND SNAKE STANDS ONCE AGAIN

OH YEAH, LET'S ALSO REMEMBER THE KICKASS WHITE WALKERS FROM LAST EPISODE

BUT THEY WERE LACKING IN THE TITS DEPARTMENT, SO AREN'T REALLY ALL THAT RELEVANT

WHITE WALKERS = DISSATISFACTORY MILKMUGS

(OH YEAH, I ALSO TOTALLY WROTE 'CHAPTER 4' AT THE TOP OF CHAPTER 5, SO SORRY ABOUT THAT)

WE DEDICATE THIS CHAPTER TO A BLOKE CALLED READER, FOR MAKING PEOPLE READ THIS AND ASSURING ME THAT IT WASN'T TOO SHIT

AIGHT, ON WITH THE NARRATIVE

Chapter 6 - Imagine If We Had Hands Instead of Feet

The powerful waves crashed at the mechanical legs of the Moving Brothel as it strode through the waters. In the cabin, Tyrion and Bronn were playing a friendly game of thrones (wordplay), and Pod was gazing longingly at a floor-to-ceiling sized painting of the late Oberyn Martell. In the painting, Oberyn was clutching onto the decapitated head of a snake, of which he was fucking. (No one's reading this, so it hardly matters if we have a wee bit of snake rape. See, I can write the word stumpfuck over and over again. Stumpfuck. Stumpfuck. Stumpfuck. What great fun we have in the writing process of The Handover 2). Pod thought that, on the edge of hearing, he could just about make out the familiar laughter of everyone's favourite Dornishman. But no, he knew that this is too good to be true, and that it is clearly his imagination getting the better of him by focusing on (arguably) better times.

Suddenly, the machinery began to splutter and shake as the Moving Brothel ground to a halt. A large bear with dreadlocks called Jean came in, spinning a basketball on one claw. Jean always had ambitions of being a basketball superstar, but when he was six years old, the official bear doctor (who is also a bear) told him that he would never succeed due to his short stubby bear legs. But Jean kept at it, and after many years of trials and tribulation, love and loss, pregnancy and pitta breads, he graduated Bear Basketball High School and entered into the official Bear Basketball Leagues, wherein he gained a reputation as a stand-out bear role model. Good for him. Jean spun around and scored a sick slam dunk before turning to the gang and saying, 'Roar'.

Tyrion and Bronn looked up from their game, and Pod begun to translate. 'Hello, it is I, Jean, bear and basketball superstar. I have come to inform you that the Moving Brothel has been ground to a halt, on account of a man with a dog's head and also some other less important dog parts having grabbed the brothel in one manly dog fist and holding it to the sky to assert his dominance. It is making the bears and prostitutes necessary to keep the Moving Brothel running nervous, and in some cases slightly vexed. We request your assistance in dealing with this problem. I must warn you, he appears to be not in the most positive mindset. I may even go as far as to refer to him as 'salty', which would be especially intelligent on account of the links not only to the salty sea surroundings, but to his angry and uncooperative disposition.'

'Shit, that sounds rather serious,' pondered Tyrion.

'Aye, too fookin' right,' responded Bronn absentmindedly whilst getting Jean to sign his basketball all-stars calendar.

And so the three men bundled down the rickety metal staircase leading down the Moving Brothel, pushed their way past the crowds of peeved-looking bears and prostitutes, and peeked their heads out of the hidey-hole window down below the Brothel. And lo and behold, Jean's absolutely plausible claims turned out to be totally legit! A large muscleman was looking manly below the Brothel, whilst holding THE ENTIRE BROTHEL up with just one manly hand! Truly, these were hands that had performed many great feats. The man's body was covered in an intricate array of scars and stitches; some were white and faded, others were red and garish, giving the man a monstrous appearance. That, and the fact that he had a dog's head (which was currently locked in a look of determination as he held aloft the mighty Brothel), as well as patches of matted fur and a crooked mud-splattered tail. Tyrion was initially confused as to how someone could be performing this feat whilst standing in the middle of the sea, but he knew that a man (or whatever this creature was) of this magnitude of manliness could easily defy the generally accepted laws of physics with just a little manpower.

As Tyrion looked down upon this monstrous manly… thing, he worried to himself. What oh what in all the Seven Kingdoms could remedy this here presented issue of which the gang found themselves facing?!

MEANWHILE

Arya and the Hound's head sat in a sleazy tavern, swigging back their drinks. Arya had herself a rum and coke (because drinking rum straight is fucking dumb, unless you're a pirate, but those enigmatic creatures are naught but myth), and the Hound had a small bowl filled with Guinness, which he was lapping up with his long-ass dog tongue (don't ask me how this works). They were there for two reasons; first is their usual tendency to drift towards sleazy alcohol-providing establishments, and second because they had planned to meet someone regarding the location of the Hound's body.

A twenty five year old man with short black hair and square-rimmed glasses sidled up to the two drinkers and placed his ass on the stool next to them. Arya looked up from her drink.

'So, you're the contact.'

'Yeah', he said. 'The name's Comeau.'

'I hear that you know everyone.'

'Yeah, pretty much everyone.'

'So, do you know any buff guys without heads?'

'You'll have to be a bit more specific. There's a lot of buff guys without heads.'

Arya held up a amateur drawing of the Hound's body she'd sketched on a napkin. Comeau looked at it for a second.

'Oh yeah, that's, err, the Hound's body. Or as they're calling him now, the Dogman.'

'Why're they calling him that?'

'Because he has a dog's head now.'

'That's pretty fuckin' metal,' piped up the Hound. 'I wish I had a fuckin' dog's head. All I've got is the fuckin' body.'

'Yeah dude, you got the shitty end of the stick here,' responded Arya.

'I heard that the Dogman was going to a party over in the middle of the Narrow Sea, actually.'

'Really?'

'Woah, what's the matter, you got the hots for him or something? I've gotta warn you, he's pretty hardcor-'

'No, no, no. Nothing like that. We need to reunite the Hound's head with his body. And of course he's gonna be hardcore, he's got a dog's head for fuck's sake. That's radical.'

'Alright, come the fuck on! Bingo bango, time to go fetch me my fuckin' body!' cried the Hound, bounding off his stool. Arya, uncertain whether or not the Hound would survive being hit by a car or something, scampered after him.

MEANWHILE

Amidst the ocean rumbled the bellow of a war horn. A large black ship edged its way out of the fog, war horns blaring. The Dogman risked a glance at the source of the noise, only to have its tender dog face smashed by the incoming bow of the ship. This powerful force of ship on muscleman momentarily stopped the Dogman's concentration, which was all that was needed to send the Moving Brothel toppling down on top of him. As the Brothel came crashing back down into the sea, the boat and the crumpled Dogman were pushed to one side by the newly formed waves. Everyone was thinking the same thing; just what is this ship, and what purpose does it serve?

With lack of a better means of getting down, the trio clambered over the side of the hidey-hole and jumped off the Brothel, falling down and landing with a crash onto the deck of the now-stationary ship. In hindsight, it was a rather foolish antic, but it seemed radical at the time, so it's hardly worth mentioning. As the trio recovered from their fall, they looked up into the faces that surrounded them.

There was a dark-skinned and imposing man standing before them. His dark matted beard was speckled with patches of dried blood, and his missing leg was replaced with an oversized novelty cannon. To the left of him crouched a wide-eyed lass with incredibly long flowing red hair piled up behind her and looped around the masts and bannisters of the ship's upper deck. To the man's right was a pink-faced fat man, with ostentatious purple clothing and a trailing pink whip which, upon closer inspection, appeared to be made up of a long chain of coiled penises. (We are mature individuals, with a healthy and family-friendly sense of humour).

'Yargh, landlubber! This be the Medhurst, the finest ship across all the seas, and ye are speaking to none other than Captain Bloodcock! To me sides ye'll see me first mate Priscilla, and Señor Penorquious, the resident cock merchant. Welcome aboard, mateys!' There began an uproar amongst the crew. The original trio looked shocked. Pirates?! In this land?! Why, they are merely a myth, constructed to scare children away from water and other such menacing elements, are they not? Apparently, this is not the case!

Tyrion spoke up first. 'For what reason have you stopped here?'

Captain Bloodcock stroked his disgusting beard. 'Why, because ye've caught yeself a monster of the deeps! Priscilla, fetch me the creature!'

The woman called Priscilla grasped a handful of her hair and flung it overboard in a makeshift lasso. It caught ahold of the leg of the now thoroughly wet Dogman, and began to hoist him aboard.

'Ye see, I pride meself in findin' such beauties! Because life gets fucking boring out in the middle of the ocean, won't you agree?'

'We've only been oot 'ere for twelve fookin' minutes,' said Bronn.

Captain Bloodcock laughed heartily. 'Why, I'm right to call ye's landlubbers! I've been out here for sixty three years! And you wanna know how old I am? I'm sixty two!' Gasps ensued from all the crew members at this apparently impressive feat. Priscilla finished lurching the Dogman over the side of the ship, whereupon he began gasping and convulsing due to an excess of seawater.

'Aha, the bastard's still alive!' cried Captain Bloodcock.

'Woof!' said the Dogman. Unfortunately, Pod couldn't speak and translate the language of Dog, but the Dogman's aggravated tones conveyed in his woof showed that he wasn't playing around (as dogs are known to do).

'Er, excuse me, Captain Bloodcock?' said Tyrion. 'We were wondering, do you happen to know the location of a giant fuck-off hand? We were told it was in the middle of the ocean, but we don't know shit about oceans.'

'Well, that's lucky for ye hornswaggers, for I happen to be a self-acclaimed expert on oceans and other such large bodies of water!' exclaimed Captain Bloodcock. 'Yes, I am aware of the giant hand you seek. It is a hundred feet tall above sea level, and its chunky stone finger points to a small but undoubtably dangerous and very mysterious island! They even say that a potent elixir can be found on the island, sprouting forth from springs and coagulating in giant-ass trees. Or so the legend goes!'

'Sweet, that sounds mysterious and has potential for all manners of wacky adventures. But where exactly is it?'

'Fucked if I know, ask Priscilla.'

'It's over there somewhere,' she responded, pointing towards the north-east. 'It's a giant fuckin' hand, so it's not like you're gonna miss it.'

'Alright, thanks guys. You weren't too weird, and you gave coherent advice. Bye.'

'Can I interest you in some discount cocks?' asked Señor Penorquious in a sing-song voice.

'No.'

And thus, the two parties went their separate ways, and the original hand-hunting gang made their way towards adventure!

FUCKIN DONE

IF ANYONE KNOWS WHERE I CAN BUY A GOOD SCOTT PILGRIM VS THE WORLD POSTER, PLEASE LET ME KNOW

BYE AND STUFF


End file.
